


The Bottleneck Job

by Mizzy



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A madman with a crossbow forces a whumped Nate and a desperate Eliot into a bottleneck, with little chance of survival. (Nate/Eliot, First Time, NC-17)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bottleneck Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elshadowboxer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=elshadowboxer).



> For Leveragexchange 2011! \o/

 

It is inevitable after all the success they had enjoyed so far that a heist would go wrong. 

They all had before, in some vague way, making Nate scoop out Plan B and Plan F and on one unforgettable occasion Plan U. Never before has Nate run out of plans. Eliot isn’t even 100% sure that Nate has run out of plans; merely the oxygen and the voice to manage them out loud.

And maybe, if they don’t find somewhere to stop soon, Nate won’t have the blood.

He doesn’t have time to stop and patch him up. The client they had all believed, that Hardison had checked and double checked, is a sociopath. Previously undiagnosed, the man who called himself Evan Steele had checked out on every single level, meaning he has money. Crazy money. Money enough to wipe out any past psychological reviews. Money enough to fool Hardison’s thorough checks on every single level. Money even Parker’s head would explode at.

Crazy money indeed, because once upon a time Eliot thought Parker crazy, but this guy makes her behaviour seem normal. At least Eliot assumes  _Parker_  would never pay a crew of criminals to run around and play victim as she shoots at them with a crossbow.

Sophie, Hardison and Parker all managed to get out of the escape hatch they found two hours ago, but Nate – stupid, honourable Nate – held back even though he’d been injured, and Steele had caught up to them. Nate even tried to shove Eliot through the grill, but Eliot knew how sociopaths acted – insanely – and pushed back.

Pushing back stopped the arrow going through one of Nate’s lungs. Sometimes the miracles you got weren’t always the miracles you woke up hoping for.

The good thing about Nate is that he isn’t heavy. It seems like most of Nate’s calories come from the alcohol, and even those he must burn off as quickly as his brain moves. Eliot can easily take most of Nate’s weight against himself, and he does. The fact that Nate doesn’t even protest is proof enough that he’s hurt, and hurt bad.

Eliot hurries them through the corridors, mentally mapping the huge complex in his head. The others should be out of the building by now, but Steele had knocked them out pretty well, at least for three hours, so they could possibly be three hours from civilisation. 

At least he knows the drug that Steele got them with. Temazepam has a very distinctive aftertaste, and Eliot’s reactions still border on the sluggish. His head is killing him, but that isn’t anything compared to the silk smooth slide of Nate’s blood on his finger tips. There isn’t much blood yet, which is less reassuring than it should be, because it means the arrow is still in Nate’s body, and that could mean a thousand different things, most of them bad.

Nate’s slowing. Eliot needs to find them somewhere to hide, somewhere where it will take Steele a while to find them. Somewhere to give Hardison, Sophie and Parker time to rescue them.

As Eliot runs, ignoring Nate’s bitten back low whine of protest that must have hurt Nate’s pride to even make, he sees it in the distance: a section they passed earlier, the full five of them, and Eliot had discounted it then because he was so sure they would find an exit, and the section he saw which could possibly hold them all was no exit. It was basically a bunker. If Steele had instant access to a good enough torch, it would hold them at best for two hours. Eliot hoped he did not have instant access, because if he did, if Parker, Hardison and Sophie were more than two hours away with help, he and Nate would be trapped like flies in a bottle. There’s no way of knowing which method Steele would use to kill them, but if he insisted on the crossbow, there would be no missing if Eliot trapped them both in there.

But Nate won’t survive Eliot not trapping him there.

Steele’s close. Way too close. Eliot’s cutting it close himself. But this is Nate’s best chance. He acts on instinct. He picks Nate up bodily, ignoring Nate’s too-loud cry of pain, and he ignores the fact he really must have hurt Nate bad to get that sound. But this is the only way. He catches the faint glimmer of one of Steele’s crossbow bolts, and he reacts – he pushes Nate up and through the waist-height door of the hidey-hole, and ducks just in time to see a bolt embed itself in the wall to his right. Eliot sees a glimpse of Steele’s cold dead eyes, and he pushes himself up and after Nate, and he swings the door shut.

It’s one of those thick submarine type doors, with a spinning handle, and Eliot thinks his lungs are going to burn with it, twisting in his hands, Steele’s footprints changing from clanks to whispers through the thick steel of the door. 

Then there’s nothing but the sounds of their breaths, and Eliot starts to count down to the seconds until Steele gets through to them, and they’re sitting ducks.

\- - - - 

It’s an hour or so until the first sounds of the flame torch reach their ears. Eliot spent the first five minutes checking the small compartment, seeing how solid it is, but apart from a very small brick letting air in (and Eliot hopes to god that Steele doesn’t push poison through the small grill), that solid door is the only way in.

Unfortunately it’s also the only way out.

They spend that hour sat side by side, backs pressed against the wall, Eliot feeling the inches between him and Nate like it’s an iron door all of its own, even though they’re a mere half hand span apart, fingers nearly touching by fault rather than design. There is a light above them, a flat panel and a halogen bulb, but it’s old, and there’s not much light. Eliot counts the shadows, because there’s not much else to do, and then counts Nate’s breaths.

When Steele’s torch sounds, spluttering and insistent, the air gets somehow thicker, even though the torch isn’t through. Yet.

“I want you to take it out,” Nate says, breaking the hour’s quiet. Like a hammer against glass failing to crack the surface and bouncing back, it does nothing to dispel the silence.

Eliot knows exactly what he means; had been waiting for Nate to say it from the moment he shut the door. Of course he does, it’s only natural. It’s 100% Nate. God forbid pushing the arrow all the way through damages a major organ; Nate wants to be able to stand to meet his probable death. Nate of course wants to look death straight in the goddamned eye. 

Eliot wants to fight him, but he knows fighting death is easier than fighting Nathan Ford. He tries anyway, because that’s who he is. “Even though I have to push it full on through where your skin isn’t broken, or risk the head snapping and embedding itself in your body?”

Nate’s gaze is cool, and he doesn’t even turn to look at Eliot. “Even though,” he repeats, in a slightly patronising tone that Eliot bristles at.

“It’ll hurt like a sumbitch,” Eliot informs him as casually as he can, even though the idea of Nate being in more pain is like a siren of its own in the back of his brain.

“I’m prepared.” Nate flickers an indefinable glance at him, and then pulls out something from his pocket. Eliot catches a flash of silver and groans, not muting the sound.

“It could be drugged,” Eliot defends, weakly.

Nate throws him a blinding, shit-eating grin and shrugs off his coat and his outer shirt, leaving nothing but his white cotton vest and the spread of blood from the protruding crossbow bolt. He opens the bottle and sniffs at it, exaggeratedly. “It’s clean,” he says. “Whiskey has a  _very_  distinctive smell.” Nate swigs at it to punctuate the mocking, and Eliot yanks it away. Nate narrows his eyes. “I could pass out from the pain.” 

“I should be so lucky,” Eliot grunts, and spins around, straddling his knees either side of Nate’s legs. He tugs Nate forward, trying to ignore how cool the skin of Nate’s shoulder feels under his palm, and assesses with his fingertips where the arrow has gone in, where it could potentially come out. He swallows. It missed Nate’s major organs, hopefully by a comfortable margin, but there’s risk in this.

“I trust you,” Nate says out of nowhere, even and crisp, like it almost hurts to say. Eliot can’t look at him in the eye as he pushes Nate’s vest up, tearing the material at the front to push it out of the way. The skin around Nate’s wound is warmer, and Eliot tries his best not to think about it, because Nate would be able to tell what Eliot was really thinking, and that could be several shades of disastrous.

The sounds of Steele’s machinery increase in volume, and Eliot’s gut tightens.  _This can’t be it._

He distracts himself from the doom and despair by doing what he knows Nate will not let him ignore. “Let’s do this,” Eliot says, and tries not to wince at the nervous note in his own voice.

He calms himself down. He’s done this before in more stressful situations. He can do this. Eliot pushes his hands against Nate’s exposed skin, tries not to feel the tingle that races up his arm, and commands, in the firmest voice he can manage: "Talk to me."

"You're just distracting me in the hopes the pain will be less," Nate says, breathing carefully through clenched teeth.

"I know you know what I'm doing," Eliot says, his fingers precise and heavy on Nate's back, splayed out like he's going to play the keyboard down Nate's spine. He adjusts the pressure, and Nate's eyes flicker away for a moment. Eliot catalogues the glance, adds it into that box in his head, the one that has a list of each moment Nate's reacted as if- almost- perhaps- But Nate's past is a catalogue of the straight life of an honest man. Seminary school, high paid job, wife, kid. Belying the tragic end to that strand, and the arrival of a new Robin Hood thread of Machiavellian proportions, Nate's brain might be wired a little strange from everyone else, but his life has been a formulaic pattern of A to B to C. 

"But I also know that you know how poor my self esteem is,” Eliot continues, “me being one of those tragic type heroes now, and I know you'd not vocally cotton on to my wily schemes to lessen your pain so as not to damage that fragile esteem, would you?"

Nate throws him a dirty look for a moment through eyelashes which are longer than Eliot had realized. Eliot shakes himself internally, because Nate might be horrendously intelligent and probably had a catalogued list of 'Eliot is gay for Nate' in the back of his head, with evidence listed and carefully labeled (dilated pupils, check, heightened temperature, check, extra bristling displays of masculinity in front of Nate, check check check) but Eliot is not going to add 'uncomfortable boner' to that list, no way, no sirree. 

Not in this lifetime. 

Nate still manages to look at him knowingly, though, and Eliot bristles, uncomfortable at the penetration (oh, god) of Nate's mental ability.

"So I should humor you," Nate says, in a low dry voice that does something to the short hairs on the back of Eliot's neck. Eliot tries his best not to tense, knowing Nate will feel it through Eliot's fingers, and studiously lowers his gaze to the soft, purpling skin near his hands. 

Nate's skin is absurdly soft, absurdly pale - the man wears enough layers, stubbornly wearing those well cut suits, finding the costumes that covered him from head to toe, and it was ridiculous. Eliot's knowledge of physiology was high end. It had to be, to know how his own body operated, every bone and muscle of him; that's how well a Hitter had to know themselves. They have to know where to place each limb carefully and precisely, and for that, anatomy is essential. Nate's insistence on covering himself up is absolutely ridiculous, because under the absurdly soft skin is a deceptive layer of muscle. Nate is strong, and probably very fast with his lean frame, and Eliot's mouth is a little dry as he can't help himself picturing Nate sparring with him.

"Always," Eliot says, a moment too late. Nate's not looking at him, his eyes still lowered, his eyelashes fanning onto his white-pale cheeks (losing blood, still losing blood) but his mouth skews a little to the left and Eliot silently curses the world for enmeshing Nathan Ford into his life, because he hasn't been laid this bare since he was born. 

"So what do you want to talk about?" Nate's tone is casual. Anyone else would be fooled into thinking that this was maybe a normal conversation, that there isn't a madman burning through the metal, that Eliot isn't about to push an arrow through Nate's back. Eliot isn't fooled. Pain has a very distinctive tension when in a voice, and Eliot has heard Nate's pain before; in every hospital, in every word Nate manages to get loose while standing anywhere near anything vaguely medical. 

"Tell me about why you left the seminary." Eliot could curse himself. He should, but he doesn't; the part of him that should be telling himself off is silently congratulating him for scratching this long-term itch. He thinks he knows the answer. Maggie, beautiful golden Maggie. Eliot remembers her with a pang. He thought almost he could fall in love with her when he met her at the party. He thought,  _finally here is a woman that could break this stupid crush on Nate. Here is a woman I can see myself with in the future, holding hands, running as far away from Nathan Ford as possible._  But then Eliot found out the truth - Maggie was Nate's ex-wife, of course - and the others thought his crestfallen expression was due to his embarrassment at crushing on Nate's wife.

It wasn't embarrassment. Well, not embarrassment alone. It was crushing inevitability. It was  _of course I would find the one woman as wrapped up in Nate as it's possible to be. It was of course the only woman I could see myself with forever is an extension of him._  It was, in essence,  _oh fuck I'm screwed, am I this far in love with him that I'm now actively seeking substitutes to sublimate the truth?_  It was, in reality, a simple  _yes_.

"Why do you think?" Nate looks up at him then, just as Eliot tenses his hands ready to push the arrow through, and Eliot falters at his wide, earnest so-blue gaze.

"You're actually a Muslim and got a little confused on the way to the mosque?" Eliot says. He feels the soft rumble of a surprised laugh coming from Nate's diaphragm, and he apologizes to Nate silently, and pushes the arrow to coincide with the laugh. The tip breaks the skin at the back and Nate's laugh turns into a wheeze; his eyes glaze and close. Eliot hates it, and he hates that Nate  _wants_  to cry out because the pain must be beyond bearing, and he hates that Nate isn't crying out because he's there.

"Got it in one," Nate manages, hissing as Eliot tugs cloth around where the arrow's pushing out. "Come  _on_ , do it as fast as you can." Even though his eyes are a little watery, Nate glares at Eliot for a second, and Eliot nods, mutely. He wraps his hand around the end of the arrow, ready to push the full arrowhead through, more than ready to get this whole thing over and done with.

"C'mon," Eliot says, gritting his teeth. "Tell me."

The arrow's obviously caught some muscle somewhere in there - the first push was hard. Eliot tries not to think about it, and definitely tries not to think how close the thing is, must be, to Nate's kidney. If they break a vessel doing this, or nick the side of an organ wall, or rip something that can't be mended... Nate obviously realizes Eliot's on the edge of losing it, because he starts to talk, slow and quiet, albeit shakily, terribly shakily.

"There was this guy. Father Tom. He- he used to look out for me at school. Pick me up whenever dad had gotten thrown in whatever jail cell. He-- ahh-" Eliot wants to waver at Nate's small whine of pain, but he makes himself continue, he has to- "Father Tom used to talk to me for hours, tell me how Jesus could save me, forgive me for all my sins. And I had- I was so convinced that I had so many, so many unsaveable sins, and my own father- oh- was a bastard, fucking over real people for a quick buck, that I really- shitwankfuck, sorry - shit- I started to believe He could, that I could be saved, that I could stop thinking the way the Bible told me was wrong, but- Gah."

Eliot finally pushes the arrow the rest of the way through at Nate's last  _gah_ , and Nate falls against him with a muffled look of shame, of embarrassment that Eliot nearly flushes at, that Eliot feels disappointed at that Nate doesn't, even now, feel entirely safe in his presence. That Nate doesn't feel comfortable being himself, being broken apart. That Nate doesn't know the lengths Eliot would go to, to put him back together.

“I think I need the alcohol now,” Nate says, almost dazed, his voice half whisper, half wheeze.

“You do,” Eliot says perfunctorily, but instead of letting Nate swallow it, he uses it on the wound. Nate makes a muttering sound in the back of his throat, but doesn’t voice a real complaint; the alcohol’s the best sterilization tool they have.

He gives Nate the rest of the alcohol. It’s not much.

"What did you mean by but?" Eliot says, as he starts tying lengths of Nate’s discarded shirt around Nate's back, staunching the blood flow as best as he can, trying not to notice that his own fingers are drenched in it, that there's more blood than there should be, that Nate's fading, maybe not quickly, but his skin's losing color and his body is losing posture and his eyes are losing their swift, knowing glow, one tiny shade at a time.

"But..” Nate’s eyes lose focus for a second, and he exhales loudly before trying again. “I guess I was just expecting a faith that meant as long as no one gets hurts, love is never wrong, in whatever form," Nate finishes, his voice clear and quiet but oddly determined. Like he is daring Eliot to have a problem with it. Like he didn't know Eliot's brain wanted to reinterpret that in what was probably the entirely wrong way. Nate can't possibly mean he'd left the seminary because he was gay. But it is a nice daydream, and one Eliot would revisit later. When they were out of there, and Nate was healing nicely in hospital, and Eliot could hide behind flirting with a hot nurse or something.

“Guess that makes sense,” Eliot says, although it really doesn’t, and Nate’s knowing grin (or grimace, Eliot’s not too sure) tells him that he’s aware Eliot’s not quite understanding him.

"You asked me one question. I think it's your turn," Nate says, with such a resonance of certainty that Eliot almost flinches at it, because Nate's not even leaving this as a question – it’s a statement, a certainty. Nate will ask, and Eliot will answer. It's inescapable. The ceiling seems lower, the walls seem tighter, and Eliot knows neither is the case - the room is the same size it was when they crawled inside. Nothing has changed but the slow curl of panic in Eliot's brain, because if Nate demands truth, there are a thousand terrible secrets inside him, and Eliot will tell Nate each and every one. His brain flits through the options.  _Who did you kill to make you so broken? Why did you agree to work with Moreau when you must have known he was a killer?_

“Why didn't you let me push you through to escape with the others?" Nate says, his gaze meeting Eliot’s like it’s a challenge he has to meet face on.

Oh.  _That_  question.

Eliot's stomach tenses unhappily, like it does every time he's about to lie, only this time he tastes something like bile at the back of his tongue, and he feels what he can only mentally describe as  _like a teenage girl_. He concentrates instead on keeping his hands steady, on binding Nate's abdomen up, round and round, strips of Nate's outer shirt changing softly from dull red to faint pink as the blood has more trouble seeping through the thin fabric. "Couldn't leave you behind. Never leave a man behind," he amends, finding the right quote. His fingertips graze a peach strip of skin above the growing thickness of bandages, and Nate honest-to-goodness shivers in front of him, and Eliot forgets how to breathe for a second.

"I just couldn't go," Eliot says, feeling a little stupid. Nate's eyes are on his again, and Eliot has, of course, promptly forgotten  _how_  to think. The buzz of Steele trying to get through the door vibrates through, faint like someone vacuuming the floor above their heads.

Eliot doesn’t think he has said anything beyond the ordinary, but a slow smile spreads on Nate's face, creasing his cheeks, and Eliot is halfway through answering it before he realises where they are.

In a room, with death on the way, with Nate bleeding externally and internally under his fingertips.

Eliot curses himself for getting them trapped in here. There had been a thousand good reasons, but he can't remember them for a moment, until Nate tenses a little under his hands, and Eliot remembers: him. It's always him. 

He wonders where the infatuation started, and knows it had to have been before the job with the Davids, because otherwise Maggie - pretty as she was - wouldn't have been on his radar (it was the briefest intonation in her voice, sardonic twist to the mouth, echoes of Nate imprinted on Maggie through their years of union) and it had to have been after the Nigerian affair, because he had never directly met Nate before. But he'd heard of him. He'd seen him in the distance. He'd left evidence for Nate to find, enough to say Eliot Spencer was here, but not enough for a full conviction. He wonders if the fascination started even then. 

Eliot had never before wanted one thing long enough to want to chase after it with the determination Nate showed when he went after one of his objects for IYS. And now here he was, in a ridiculous situation, and he'd put himself there. Willingly. Every other week, there he was, willingly doing one stupid thing after the next, just because Nate told him to? Just because some poor soul would finally get their justice?

It wasn't the goal of the chase that called Eliot. There were some things a million good deeds could never atone for, and Eliot had done a whole raft of those things. But still Eliot trapped himself in recurring nightmares (a numbered walk around a boat; a past he had forgotten to say goodbye to; the heavy weight of gun metal in his hands) and all for what? 

For Nate. Because Nate told him to. Because whatever Nate tells him to do, Eliot will do it, even if it is against something Eliot had promised to himself he would never do.

"If  _I_  say you're thinking too much, it means something, right?" Nate says.

Eliot blinks rapidly; the motion finally derails his spiraling thoughts. "Not when you're in that much pain," he says. If his voice is a little too gruff, Nate's either too much in pain or tool polite to point it out. "Anything you say can be considered as insane delusions brought on by being drugged and shot at by a madman."

"That explains why Hardison keeps saying you're getting at him, then," Nate jokes, and he blinks like he's just woken up. Eliot pushes forwards onto his knees, moving further into Nate's personal space, moving one hand from the thick ring of bandages to Nate's cheek. Eliot briskly and impersonally checks Nate's face (because if he isn't pretending to be a doctor, he might look at Nate tenderly, and then where would they be? Eliot would have a black eye and the team dynamic would be irrevocably ruined, and Eliot would have to wander the earth as a Hitter for hire, and this is _ridiculous_ , he was supposed to be checking Nate's face for damage, not writing a sorrowful ode or whatever) and is glad to see there's no bleeding in either eyeball. Nate blinks again, rapidly, and his eyes slide from Eliot's fingers, feather light on his cheek, to Eliot's own worried gaze.

Eliot holds the gaze, because the alternative is tearing his gaze away and giving Nate a more substantial clue about Eliot's actual intentions for Nate's personage should cows jump over the moon and he ever get the opportunity.

The sound of Steele’s equipment gets louder then, and Eliot glances at the doors worryingly.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” Nate says in a way too calm voice, like Steele’s not minutes away from breaking through and killing them horrifically. “Which tells me enough.”

“I answered,” Eliot defends automatically, his voice heated a little with anger as his eyes fly back to Nate’s face. Something in Nate’s face softens, and Eliot thinks somehow he’s given too much away, and he can’t figure out how. This isn’t a situation he can figure out with his fists, or with his extensive knowledge, or his devil-may-care attitude. This is a situation that means something, too much, and Eliot can’t figure it out at all. This is all so completely strange, but he has his fingers on Nate’s cheek still, and Nate isn’t moving away, and it’s more than anything he expected before, so Eliot’s not going to break this weird moment, because moments like this are all he’s ever going to get. This is all he’s allowed of Nate. This might be all anyone’s ever allowed of him. A moment of pain, a touch designed to comfort, and then terror, and blood, and pain. And then blissful nothing, if they’re lucky.

Nate shifts a little, pushing one hand against the wall, and Eliot’s immediately there, sliding his other hand down from Nate’s back to help him get better purchase against the floor, lean more against the wall. Nate looks at him, his expression enigmatic and unreadable for a long second, and Eliot frowns back at him, wondering what Nate’s even thinking. It’s difficult to tell in the best of situations, and this is far from the best of situations. Except then something in Nate’s face closes like a door shutting. He’s decided something.  _But decided what?_  Eliot swallows, because it can’t be anything good, not with death so few paces away from them.

"I know normally in a situation like this you would respond with a fist to the face of anyone trying it," Nate starts oddly, and Eliot frowns at him, because it's a weird beginning to a statement, or a question, "but I really hope I've been reading you right."

 _Reading me right for-_  is all Eliot can think before Nate's eyes are somehow suddenly larger, no, wait, he's closer, so close Nate's next whisper is hot on his skin, trailing an instant path down to his groin, and his words are desperate almost, as he says, "Tell me this isn't what you want."  _Whu-_  Eliot's brain manages, and then, in the semi-darkness, Nate's mouth finds his.

And Eliot is lost.

\- - - 

Eliot makes this sound in the back of his throat like this is all he’s ever wanted, and something deep in Nate responds automatically. He surges up into the kiss, digging his fingers into Eliot’s shirt, scooping up the material and tugging at it gently, hoping Eliot will get the hint.

Nate’s been tired for a while of pretending. He had tried to hard to be the honest man, the straight man, the honourable man. Maggie was enough, for a while, but Sam had been the only thing holding their house-of-cards marriage together. When Sam died, the foundation of their relationship died with him, and everything came crashing down.

It was why Nate blamed himself for so long, because he wasn’t that person. He wasn’t honest, or honourable, or straight. He had only voiced the word bisexual twice. Once, his father had slapped him so hard he ricocheted into the bar and broke his cheekbone. The second time, Father Tom had looked at him so disappointedly; Nate had vowed to never let his mentor look so ashamed again.

But that wasn’t who he was. His fervour towards his mentor had been a sublimated crush, of course it had – Nate lived in denial a long time, but eventually had to come to terms with it. Father Tom had been the only decent male in his whole life, ever – it was natural for an adolescent boy that Nate would attach feelings to him, that he would associate the longings he was supposed to be repressing to him. He pushed Father Tom out of his mind, entered the seminary, and was haunted by his memory of wanting him, wanting those thin pale hands touching him, pressing him down; wanting those pale blue eyes to look at him with the same desire and longing.

Nate might have repressed it all, but Eliot had the same coloured eyes; Nate knows in part that’s why he’d tried to push Eliot away so quickly from the beginning,  _we are not friends_. Because the mental images, Eliot leaning in close, that warm rumbling voice, those blue knowing eyes… Nate’s gut had tightened, and he ashamedly thought of Sam for a moment to keep his base reactions hidden, because all he had wanted at that moment was for Eliot’s strong arms to push him against the table. For those heated blue eyes to stay locked on his. For those muscles to hold him down, and for Eliot to take him, take everything, forever.

This moment is all wrong timing, but Nate’s been so tired of denying this, what he’s wanted since the beginning, what he’s been denying for too long. He would much rather take his time, explain to Eliot that this isn’t just a panicked, near-death fuck, let Eliot push him down to a feather bed and not against some harsh steel wall in the middle of a nightmare-come-calling, lie in sheets and not a smear of Nate’s own blood. But if this is all he can ever have, he’s not going to let Eliot stop.

And Eliot obviously has intentions of stopping. He tugs away his heated mouth, his lips already swollen, and a shade of red that Nate can almost see if he closes his eyes and stares at the light. Nate has no intention of playing fair. He knows Eliot’s trigger is control, and he knows Eliot looks up to him (or he never would have waited for Nate to make the first move, to turn this thing simmering between them into something; this would be desperate, death-is-near sex, and there wouldn’t be this tangle of feeling in his chest) and he has this fair guess brewing in his mind that Eliot won’t be able to resist Nate if he lets Eliot hear his weakness, his disappointment. Eliot’s a protector, and will want to protect him to the end, and Nate’s not beyond using that.

He makes a whimper at the back of his throat that is part pain, part genuine disappointment at Eliot pulling away.

Eliot’s eyes darken, just a little bit, and his fingers dig into Nate’s cheek. The war and indecision is plain on Eliot’s face. 

“I’m- I’m not- This isn’t-“ Eliot tries, the words lodging in his throat, his tone as desperate and raw as Nate imagines his own voice must sound like, expelled from his dry throat.

“If this is all the time we have,” Nate says. “I want it.” Eliot still looks indecisive, and Nate inwardly groans, because he really wants to be kissing Eliot again, and Eliot wants it, he wants him, and this weird nobility is only losing them time. Time they should have always been using differently. Nate has regrets, of course he does, especially now he knows what it feels like to have Eliot’s strength pushed up against him with intent, now he knows the taste of Eliot’s mouth, more addictive than any alcohol. “And when we get out of here, I want it again, and again. If you do.” The last three words come out a little oddly, and Nate hadn’t realised that was part of his own nerves, his own tension, because he realises then, in that moment, that he’s not that clever. He can’t be, if this moment of blood and despair could be their only chance. So maybe he’s interpreted Eliot all wrong, and the kiss was only Eliot appeasing him, playing along, thinking he somehow bizarrely  _owed_  Nate something-

But Eliot’s eyes are serious, and he says, hoarse and honest, “I want this” and he laces his hand in with Nate’s, a little clammy and uncertain, and oh, god, that’s hotter than it has any right to be; Eliot’s meticulous control, wavering because of  _him._

Nate smirks up at him and presses up, carefully, exactly; it’s a dirty tactic, but Eliot’s a physical person, and this evidence of their shared arousal in unmistakable. They both let out a sound of approval, and Eliot’s eyes are shining at him in the almost-darkness. Nate knows the exact words to bait Eliot, to kick this all off while they still can. “So what are you waiting for?”

\- - -

He should hold back. He should be careful. Nate’s bleeding and could be delusional. But this is too close to something, the first thing Eliot has ever really  _wanted_  so much he can barely breathe with it, and he’s strong, but he’s not  _that_ strong. Nate wants him. Nate  _wants_  him. And Eliot can’t deny him anything.

He wants to be careful and to take his time, but the vibrations of Steele’s machinery are getting ever closer, and he is selfish: if this is all he can have, then he’s taking it. 

Eliot's brave, but he's never felt braver than now, slipping his fingers down, grazing the trail of hair that’s a promise to a destination, curling his fingers around the hot heavy flesh of Nate's trapped erection. He squeezes once, lightly, experimentally, and Nate makes this keening sound that tightens something low and hot in the pit of Eliot's stomach, and he thinks  _I could come from that alone_. Something in him regrets that they won't ever have the chance to find out, but Eliot's pretty positive he could come from the sound of Nate's voice, dirty and persuasive in his ear, his voice rumbling along Eliot's skin like the best kind of promise.

He's less than composed as he tugs at Nate's boxers (practical, of course) down as far as possible, freeing the erection, and Eliot spends a moment that he will never consider a waste tracing the hot and hard length, memorising the ridges, letting it hang against his hand, flicking his thumb over the head once, smoothing out the pre-cum and thrilling at the whimper that comes from Nate's mouth, a sound Eliot is positive Nate hadn't meant to make. Nate's dick is full, cut, a dull burning red, and its weight in Eliot's hand is reassuring and awing all at once. He drags his hand up and down in the way he likes it, fingers cupping underneath, and he finds himself getting into it before he's even thinking about it, letting his fingers draw against the heated flesh as he takes Nate's mouth in a bruising kiss to stop himself from just watching his fingers teasing Nate in a dragging, pulling, back and forth hypnotic rhythm. He worries just for a fleeting second that the kiss is too much, too soon, and Nate's not ready, but he feels a nip of teeth which aren't his own against his lower lip, and looks up to see an expression of what's possibly pure bliss on Nate's face before Nate opens his eyes wide - his pupils are completely blown. This is Nate at his most open. Eliot's dick throbs involuntarily in response, and suddenly he just has to see to it, and he fumbles with his zip, almost hissing at the cool metal as it touches his heated skin, and he doesn't let up on the steady rhythm of his right hand, even though Nate makes a sharp sound like he's hurt; it's too late now, it's much too late. 

The cool air as Eliot's erection is finally free feels like an extra hand, curling around his arousal, pin sharp and heavy; it's nice, but it's not what his body wants, what at this point it needs. Eliot surges up and in, kissing Nate almost open-mouthed, tangling his tongue against Nate's, grinning into the kiss when Nate meets him with the same amount of pressure, the same wet curl and hampered breaths. Eliot tugs down one of Nate's hands, and curls it around both of their erections, reluctantly pulling his own hand away from the pull-drag rhythm. There's no point pretending. They both know exactly where this is going. Nate gets the picture immediately, curling his hand tight around them both, his clever fingers finding the same rhythm Eliot's had. Eliot can't suppress the guttural moan he needs to make, so he pushes his face in the crook of Nate's neck and lets the moan loose, nipping at the skin there with his teeth as he pushes his finger down, and rubs the pad of his forefinger against the tight hole he's been feverishly denying himself thoughts of for the better part of four years now.

If Eliot had allowed himself to dream of this moment, he would have dreamed it slow, taking his time to explore, tugging and teasing Nate's asshole into a proper stretch so there'd only be the smallest possible amount of pain, but there's nothing between them now but this burning need, this engulfing knowledge that this has to happen, now, or maybe they won't ever get this chance. Eliot cries out as Nate's clever fingers play with the head of his dick, sliding the foreskin forward just a little, and the sensation is too much, too soon; it's almost too painful. But he's not the one bleeding, and in a perfect world they would have time to find each other's preferences, the best way to make each other come, and the exact places to press on each other's skin. Now their hands are generic, their kisses are inexact, and it's enough, it's better than enough, it's all they have, and maybe it's all they have time for. 

Nate seems to know it too, but he lets Eliot take the time to push his finger in. Nate shifts, his body tensing at the intrusion, and Eliot's about to pull out, to resign this moment to admittedly a hell of a hand job, but Nate's expression is determined, and before Eliot can even pull away far enough, can stop him, Nate levers himself up and undulates his hips, pushing himself down onto Eliot's finger. It has to hurt, but Eliot risks a look at Nate's face and doesn't see the telltale muscle strain in his jaw to prove it, and Nate opens his eyes lazily and there is again, that goddamned smirk, that's plainly asking Eliot what the hell he plans to do next.

Eliot's never been slow.

He pulls out his finger, trying to suppress the shiver at how the puckering flesh tried to hold it back, trying not to think how impossible that's going to feel around his dick, and he lifts it up to spit on it, because even a little lubrication is better than nothing, but Nate ducks his head, and swallows Eliot's finger whole, licking wetly at the digit, keeping his eyes locked on Eliot's, and Eliot's almost relieved, because his mouth is so dry now doing the same would be impossible.

Eliot pushes his finger back down, penetrating Nate's ass again, encountering less resistance this time, and he pulls it out before pushing it back in right up to his knuckle, mimicking the thrust his penis will make and Nate  _growls_ , long and low. "I want you to fuck me," he demands, his low voice somehow an octave lower than normal, and Eliot's shivers - he's incapable of denying him this.

\- - - - -

Nate's always been a bossy bottom. Maggie used to like that. She liked both being in control and yet being controlled. In the brief time when their sex life was flaring, functional, Maggie liked it best being on top, rolling her hips while her wet, hot cunt took him in, deep and hungry. Nate would watch her, the length of his dick disappearing into her, her liquids coating the firm skin of his erection, pooling in the soft folds of her sex.

Sex with Maggie was amazing, hot, and generally just the right side of kinky for Nate to maintain an erection throughout, even if he didn't orgasm. He'd thought for a few moments in their marriage that he'd finally beaten his repression, that he'd finally got everything right in those moments.

Just the merest tug of Eliot's naked skin against his was enough proof for Nate that in those moments he had been utterly, completely, and unbearably wrong.

Even though Nate's fairly sure that Eliot knows how much Nate needs this,  _now_ , Eliot's still holding back a bit, and for the second time in the most intimate part of this blazing fire of a moment, Nate takes things into his own hands. Almost literally. Eliot's hands are shaking a little, so Nate takes one in his own hand, and curls Eliot's fingers around his own erection, encouraging Eliot to smear the pre-cum gathered at the head down the not exactly unimpressive length. Nate smiles at him and Eliot gets it, moving his hand slowly around his erection, wanking himself off slowly. Nate pushes at his pants. In another world, this would have almost been romantic, up to a point. But this is functional by necessity. Nate can feel that slow throb, that ache that means if he isn't filled soon, he's going to get, well, pissy. His father used to say Nate's up-tightness was unnatural, and needed to be fucked out of him, and Nate has to laugh, because a) he's thinking about his father when he's having the most painful albeit hottest sex in his life, and b) his father was right. He doesn't exactly think Jim Ford meant for his up-tightness to be fucked out of his ass, but then Nate's pretty sure his father isn't the smartest cookie in the jar.

It is painful as he manages to pull his pants down far enough, and it's going to be that kind of awkward sex where things only just barely fit, but Nate doesn't care. He levers himself up further, the material of his slacks pooling to his calves, and he ignores the throb of pain from where the arrow has made a complete tunnel through his innards, because the buzz of watching Eliot's large hands lazily dragging up and down his own erection whitewashes the pain away, until it's just as much a buzz in his subconscious as Steele burning his way into their small room.

Nate pushes Eliot's hands away, and grabs at the base of Eliot's dick, circling his fingers around it, clamping down. Eliot's large hands settle on his hips, ridiculously gentle at the touch, but Eliot's letting the weight of them settle on Nate's hipbones, and that's enough of the sensation Nate is craving.

Nate hesitates, that same old pang of guilt spiralling down his spine, that this is wrong, that he is going to hell, but Eliot looks at him then, with this hazy, heavy-lidded look of desire and amused affection that wipes it all away. 

He lowers himself down gingerly, guiding Eliot’s erection to where he needs it the most.

Eliot’s not small. Nate knew that. He has been firmly in denial, but in that time of denial, he did make a point of checking Eliot out, because he needed to know every weapon in their arsenal, and, okay, so he was leching. He’s probably been allowed to this whole time if Eliot’s expression is anything to go by. It’s going to hurt, but Nate’s already in pain, already broken apart by Eliot’s heated, piercing gaze, and as he guides the head of Eliot’s dick inside him, Eliot licks across his lips, kisses him, and breathes against his mouth, “ _Nate_.”

It’s just his name, but that’s all it takes. Nate damns the pain, damns everything else, damns that he’s probably going to tear something, damns his body for not being as ready as his heart, but he damns the thought that tells him he shouldn’t do this, because the  _want_  for it is more scorching than anything Nate has ever felt, it’s eating him up, consuming him whole. He lowers all his weight down in one swift movement, swallowing Eliot’s length all at once, because he  _needs_  it, he needs it.

It does hurt. The pain is white-hot behind his eyeballs and he blinks back the tears unsuccessfully, and at least Eliot’s a freaking trooper because he’s well behaved enough to stay still even though Nate can feel his dick throbbing against his tight internal walls. Eliot’s hands clamp around Nate’s elbows, and the pain filters away a little under Eliot’s confident, consistent hold. The pain doesn’t go away entirely, but that’s okay. Nate likes arousal on the edge of painful, all the tiny electric sparks in his body that remind him he’s alive. His dick slightly softened with the burn of pain, but Eliot drops one of his hands, curling his quick fingers around it, teasing it back to life and full hardness.

A second later, and Nate can move, so he does.

Eliot starts to make sounds, and from that moment on, doesn’t stop; small little grunts that tighten Nate’s balls, making more blood rush to an almost painful erection. Nate feels his orgasm start to build quickly, too quickly, but he can’t stop it, that pleasurable rush of heat like a thousand hot bubbles trapped in his groin. The way they’re moving is sloppy, too desperate to be great, but frantic enough to be just  _right_  for the moment. The first time Eliot’s dick scrapes against his prostate, Nate thinks there’s another impossible ring of muscle to rip that he forgot about, as his vision goes white-blind again, but this time it’s pleasure. He’s barely co-ordinated, pushing them together in a half haphazard rhythm that shouldn’t work, but because it’s them, finally, briefest parts of skin against skin, it does.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room along with their breaths, Steele’s machinery a distant noise. Eliot takes over, the best kind of foil for a pushy bottom like Nate, because he has the strength and the stamina to lift Nate up, taking him by the hips, leaving a pattern of fingertip bruises that may never come through (although Nate faintly recalls seeing bruises come through on a body on an autopsy on TV, and he shakes that away, because the looming orgasm’s making him dizzy, making him sweat, and the first – only? – time he orgasms with Eliot, he doesn’t really want it to be because he’s thinking of a corpse.) It doesn’t take Nate much to actually come. Eliot comes first, and Nate can feel it, the slide of it, the way for a second he feels right, complete; like the complete gentleman he is, Eliot stays hard long enough to pump Nate’s dick with his hand, to thrust up a couple of more co-ordinated times against Nate’s prostate, and Nate comes messily all over Eliot’s hand, slumping against him as his body tries to squeeze the life-force out of Eliot’s dick, still embedded in Nate’s body.

They stay for a moment, breathing hard, locked in this weird, intimate embrace. Nate cries out as Eliot lifts him one more time, to pull his softening dick out, and the next few moments are oddly intimate. There’s nothing they can do to clean up, really, but Eliot wipes up Nate as best as he can with the remains of Nate’s outer shirt, and Eliot lets Nate dig his fingernails into his arm as he smoothes the soft fabric over the painful hole, and Nate can’t help it. He finds himself laughing helplessly. He tries to help as Eliot gets them both dressed again, but it’s all just this side of hilarious. They’re sitting, waiting to die, in the remains of their come. If help does come, Nate’s going to be a thousand shades of uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

If help doesn’t come, well-

Eliot’s hand tightens around his, and awkwardly, awkwardly, Eliot lets go and sits back down next to Nate.

They sit there for a moment; the only sound their muffled breathing, and the loudening sound of Steele’s machinery. This time the space between them is less than a half hand span, and Eliot looks nervous, and Nate’s heart leaps. Didn’t he let Eliot know enough? Or does he still think-

“This wasn’t just because we’re about to die,” Nate says, and Eliot turns haunted eyes to his that soften imperceptibly. Then Nate’s the one to be hit by insecurity, and he tags on, feeling sore and a little useless, “Right?”

“Not for me,” Eliot says, and pushes their hands together, lifting them up and pressing his mouth to Nate’s palm. Nate can’t help the smile. He’s tired now, really aware of how tired he is, and Steele’s getting closer, so close, and Nate’s heartbeat is rising to meet the loudness of Steele breaking through.

Nate doesn’t look Eliot as he says, slowly, “What chance would there be of me telling you to use me as a human shield so you have a chance of surviving this?”

Eliot’s fingers, entwined with him, flutter as they tense. “You knew my answer to that before you asked it. And,” Eliot adds, in a thin, exasperated voice, “if you even think of throwing yourself forward to save me, I will kill myself, swear to god.”

“I wasn’t-“ Nate says, but he swallows the lie. 

The sound gets louder. Nate can hear Eliot swallow, can feel it through their joined fingertips, the slight tremble of his skin. Nate knows what he wants – to face death head on. To stare it down, unmoving. But he also knows what Eliot wants, can feel it in his bones now that this thing between them that had been like a ghost before has become something real, something solid. Eliot would prefer to close his eyes, to hold on tight, to pretend to be anywhere but _there_ , hand-in-hand, dying at the hands of a complete lunatic, not even for a very good reason.

Nate swallows his want for defiance down, because Eliot’s desire, well, it’s not so bad.

“I want-“ Nate says, and forces himself to look up at Eliot, and Eliot, even now, still looks uncertain. Like Nate’s going to rip out of his heart and smash it to bits. Nate’s heart leaps, and he wants to throw himself in the way of any harm coming Eliot’s way. He also knows Eliot doesn’t make idle threats, and he finds part of his brain realizing he doesn’t blame that part of Eliot; he can’t imagine a life without Eliot in it now. “I want-“ Nate tries again, but the words aren’t coming, lost in the sparks of Steele’s torch, finally melting through the door.

Eliot’s an action kind of guy, and Nate’s grateful for it. Even though it does hurt, Nate pushes himself up and pushes into Eliot’s personal space, winding his hands around Eliot’s narrow waist, and he buries his nose in Eliot’s chest, closing his eyes tight, and he’s a little surprised – maybe he is the kind to duck and hide after all. Or maybe it’s just for the first time in his life he has somewhere to hide.

He feels Eliot’s chin against his hair, and when Eliot makes an unhappy sound, Nate feels it against his cheek. The world narrows down to this – the faint, far-off sound of Steele coming to get them, and the reassuring pressure of Eliot. The first gets louder, and Nate, desperately, lifts his face and Eliot crushes his mouth down to meet him and they kiss, hungrily, desperate. End of the world.

Nate screws his eyes as he hears the machine stop, as he hears the sounds of Steele prising the door away, and he keeps kissing Eliot, his hands struggling to gain purchase in Eliot’s shirt, Eliot’s hands tangling in the curls of his hair, blindly moving, and he waits, waits for the whistle of air as Steele kills them, and in the pause before he thinks it’s going to come, Hardison makes a whistling sound behind his teeth, and-

Oh. Hardison. Eliot whispers “ _Shit_ ,” in an adorable, raspy voice as he pulls away. Nate can feel Eliot turn his face to their rescuers, and he can picture Eliot’s forced grin, and the brilliance of it, the sheer realisation, how absolutely ridiculous it has to look hits him at once and he starts to laugh, and his abdomen hurts from it. Eliot’s hands go immediately to his wound, holding him gently, and he’s laughing too.

It’s completely, horribly embarrassing. But they’ve been rescued. They’re free. They have the time of the world to explore each other. Parker pushes through the gap, a cheesy grin on her small face, and helps Nate up, Eliot staying staunchly by his other side.

It turns out Steele drove them in circles for a couple of hours and the nearest town was actually a city. Hardison ran like the wind and brought back reinforcements, and Steele had nearly gotten through the door when the police came through and stopped him – he had been so distracted with his loud machinery to hear them approach. Steele was in jail and would go down forever – there was almost twenty bodies in the basement, and that was for a start.

Nate shudders at that, at how close he and Eliot came to joining that body count, and he shudders again as they come out into the daylight, as a cop starts guiding them to a waiting ambulance. Nate doesn’t let go of Eliot’s hand, and doesn’t look at him, abruptly frightened this whole thing was adrenaline caused, the result of panic. As they get to the ambulance though, Eliot leans in, kisses him on the mouth lingeringly in front of them all, and his voice is rumbling and gentle as he instructs the paramedics to take good care of him “or else”. The paramedics eye Eliot’s substantial curves of muscle, swallow nervously, and agree.

Nate smiles at Eliot, and then gets back to the important business of healing properly. His team are intact. They have people to save, and from the look on Eliot’s face, well... Nate’s pretty sure he and Eliot have an important appointment with an actual bed, and he’s not going to miss it.


End file.
